


Belonging

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Dominance, Insecurity, Love, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: be•long•ing n.1. belongings, possessions; personal effects.2. close relationship: a sense of belonging.





	

Seated in the relative gloom of the carriage, Moriarty draws out his gold pocketwatch, opening the case to check the time before emitting a little sigh and snapping the case shut once more. As he returns the watch to its pocket, he glances out of the carriage window towards where Colonel Moran stands in conversation with a, well, even Moriarty might hesitate to call her a _lady_. A woman then, in perhaps her middle thirties; pretty enough, the professor supposes, though he is by no means a man with any especial interest in the aesthetic qualities of women, but he suspects men less like him would not find her without physical appeal. A prostitute – Moriarty is not so oblivious to these things, whatever many others may think of him and his _appetites_ – that he cannot recognise her as such. And clearly she knows Moran; indeed she is comfortable enough with him to engage him in conversation, chatting to him; laughing at something he says to her (Moriarty wishes he could hear what but they are too far away and the street noise further prevents this) in a manner suggestive of genuine regard for an old acquaintance rather than this simply being an attempt at a mere business transaction.

When at last the pair separate, the woman heading off down the street, Moran approaches the carriage with his head slightly bowed, though Moriarty can still see the slight smile on his face.

“Sorry, sir.” The carriage rocks slightly as Moran climbs in, seating himself beside the professor. “We got talking and, well, it went on a bit longer than I expected.”

“Who was that?” Moriarty enquires as the driver sets the horses into motion.

“Name's Hettie, sir.”

“A friend of yours?”

Moran glances at the professor's face, as if searching for some hidden meaning behind the nonchalant tone. “I s'pose.”

“You bedded her.” This is not a question and Moriarty does not look at Moran as he says it.

Moran too looks forward again, swallowing thickly, sensing he has unwittingly strayed into risky territory. With his hat settled in his lap, he runs a hand over his slicked back hair. “Yes. Before we... Before _you_.”

“Of course. I would not assume otherwise.”

“Yet it concerns you still, me talking to her.”

“Why should I not be concerned?” How relaxed Moran looked in that woman's company, Moriarty thinks; how easily they seemed to get along. “You with all your... experience, when I myself have so little.”

Moran glances at him again. “Professor?” Not jealousy this, he thinks, but something else. He is certain that the professor would not wish to be anything other than the man he is; that he would never wish to change himself to align himself better with other men, but to a man like him, one so brilliant, so clever, it pains him to be reminded sometimes that there are things he does not know, or even that he cannot know. “What I did in the past, that's irrelevant.”

Moriarty smiles thinly as he rests his gloved hand upon Moran's thigh, letting it lie there heavily. “Is it, my dove, truly?”

“I chose you,” Moran reminds him.

“Indeed you did.” Moriarty's fingers grip more tightly for a moment.

“Are you accusing me of something, sir?” Moran enquires. “You think I'll betray you because you and I, we have differing desires?”

Moriarty relinquishes his hold on Moran's thigh. “I am not accusing you, no.”

“But that's what you fear?”

Moriarty meets Moran's gaze for a second or two before he looks away with a bitter smile on his face. This, apparently, is all the answer he intends to give. “What were you speaking of, with that woman?” he asks after some time has passed in silence, with only the sounds of horses' hooves and other external noise to fill the space.

Moran shrugs. “Pleasantries.”

“Pleasant reminisces?” Moriarty eyes him again, Moran looking back at him just as intently.

“Maybe.”

“I never knew of her before now.”

“You never asked me for a full list of my past conquests.” Moran says this with an edge of defiance in his tone, with his chin tilted up slightly as he regards Moriarty, which earns him another smile, not bitter or ironic now but one of genuine pleasure.

Although he has his moments of insecurity, where even self-assured as he is, he sometimes questions whether he can hold Moran's interest, the professor positively relishes it when Moran displays such spirit. He has never desired an obsequious or thoroughly passive companion, much less a cowed one. After all any fool could make someone fear them.

“Indeed I did not.” Moriarty turns and lifts his hand, putting it to Moran's throat, closing his leather-clad fingers very carefully around it, pressing but very deliberately not squeezing. He brushes the pulse-point with his fingertips as Moran continues to simply look up at him, not fighting, not resisting, trusting him absolutely. _Mine_ , that gesture says; mine in body and in soul; mine to do whatever I wish with, but it is an action absolutely controlled, with its implied possession perfectly calculated not to intimidate Moran but to excite him.

Indeed Moran's lips are slightly parted now; his breathing sounds slightly different, a little more hoarse perhaps, though Moriarty knows with complete certainty that his hold on Moran's throat is not enough to directly cause a restriction of breath. His gaze is fixed upon Moriarty's, his pupils wide and dark.

“I _could_ tell you about some more of 'em,” Moran offers. He spreads his legs slightly, perhaps unconsciously so, and runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

“All of your sordid little trysts?” Moriarty smiles. He drops his hand from Moran's throat, letting it rest on the colonel's thigh once more. He squeezes, without malice; with affection. “Perhaps you shall my boy, _later_.” He places precise and careful emphasis on this last word, making it say far more than the one word itself: _control yourself, for now_ , it says.

Moran does, cognisant of and obedient to the hidden meaning, for he will always (well, _almost_ always) obey the professor. He settles himself back against the seat, closing his eyes as he composes himself again. He is aware still of the warm weight of Moriarty's hand upon his thigh, a pleasant reminder of Moriarty's control over him; an indication also that Moriarty is not ignorant of Moran's continued presence even though the professor has turned his head to watch the world outside the carriage window.

At least, Moriarty appears to be watching the world outside the window. In truth he is thinking more upon Moran's reaction when he put his hand around his throat. How perfectly acquiescent he was, yet Moran is no meek lamb but still a fiery tiger. He does not passively offer himself up for sacrifice; he is simply content to let Moriarty do what he will with him, having complete faith in the professor to never harm him.

Moriarty is used to having power over other people. He is used to subtly manipulating others to obey his will, whether it was something as harmless as getting a fellow student to carry all of his books for him in his school days or something more far-reaching, manipulating others to break the law and take all of the risks upon themselves yet still relinquishing a greater share of the resulting profits to him, for instance. But he is unused to this – this sense of having such complete power over another person. Having the power to inflict physical pain on another, even to kill him, these are nothing new. Having the power to kill a man because that man trusts him so profoundly; having the power also to destroy a man by breaking his heart, these are new to him and things which he had never expected to experience even when he had brought Moran into his employment. Novel feelings, yes; strange ones even, but extremely interesting, even sometimes rather moving.

Without looking down he lets his hand shift over to clasp Moran's, to link his fingers through the colonel's and let their entwined hands rest between them. Later, Moriarty thinks, in a far more _intimate_ setting, he will ask Moran about some of his other past sexual conquests, without accusation or mockery. Perhaps this is simply out of curiosity about his lover; perhaps to some extent also it is because, while he does not doubt Moran's regard for or loyalty to him, sometimes he still wonders why it is that Moran chose him to commit to when he could have had his pick of so many others. He does not though regret that Moran did so, even if he cannot entirely comprehend why.

He glances at Moran's face again, seeing the smile that plays about the colonel's lips as Moriarty joins hands with him. That tells Moriarty again, as if further proof was needed, that Moran too does not regret his choice; that he is more than content with the way things are between them. Though Moriarty may have his doubts from time to time about whether Moran truly wishes to remain with him in their private relationship, sometimes it only takes a glance at the colonel's face to reassure him that Moran is indeed perfectly happy with him.

Moriarty is controlling; he acts with dominance, even possessiveness, towards the colonel, which may give Moran the impression that he is owned by the professor, but when that dominance is mingled with clear affection and moments even of great tenderness, that is not the main impression it gives him.

Above all Moran does not feel that sense of belonging _to_ the professor merely like some inanimate object, only that of simply _belonging,_ and indeed, for the very first time in his life, Moriarty thinks that perhaps he too can finally understand what it feels like to belong.

 


End file.
